CHAPTER TEN

I didn't expect any of the team to be especially buoyant after the conference. Yes, we'd saved Claude Denizet. But none of us had much sympathy for that pompous little twerp, and we'd had to pay for his life with Dean Mitchell's. I was furious that Michael Sands had first taken me for a fool and then made me look like one. Harry, faced with a PR disaster, was understandably livid, and took his anger out on Lucas and me. He hadn't mentioned Sugarhorse again, but I guessed that at least part of his rage was a by-product of his anxiety about it. I wanted to offer support, as per my job description, but this clearly wasn't the time.

Lucas I could do something about. He'd been very subdued ever since Dean's death. Harry being ratty and aggressive I could cope with, but I wasn't about to try and do my job sandwiched between two people with faces the length of the bloody M1. Anyway, Lucas was too sentimental for his own good – and mine – at the best of times.

I knew there was something either he or I had said that was relevant to his mood, but when I went back over the transcripts of his debriefing, they were no help. I kept thinking, cursing my memory for letting me down when I most needed it.

It was two more days before it came back to me. I nabbed Lucas when Harry had gone off to one of his increasingly frequent mysterious 'meetings' and installed me in his office to keep things ticking over. Lucas gave me a teasing smile that disarmed me for a second.

"That desk suits you," he observed. "Harry should look out." When I didn't respond, the smile faded. "What's the matter, Ros?"

"You are," I said. "Sit down. There's something I wanted to tell you. And if I'm wrong, I want you to say so."

The office door slid open. Connie's eyebrows shot up when she saw Lucas.

"Ros, Section A's sent up that report that you - "

"Later, Connie," I snapped. She bristled, and I belatedly added, "Thank you."

She made a huffing noise like an indignant horse and departed, leaving an air of umbrage and disapproval behind her. I turned back to Lucas.

"Dean Mitchell reminded you of someone you knew at Leshanko. Another prisoner. And that prisoner – or something that happened to him – is the reason why you tried to take your own life."

For a moment he just stared. Then he shook his head.

"How do you know about that?"

I suppressed a nascent feeling of triumph at being right. "You gave yourself away. Up on the roof. I said something about not hanging yourself with any slack I might cut you."

There was a long pause before he said: "Her. Sasha. Her." He swallowed. "She was just a kid – an urchin really, from Omsk. She was like Dean - sassy, always ready with the backchat. School dropout … she more or less lived on the streets. Mother was a mess, drink and drugs, and her father was long gone. It's not all billionaires buying up football clubs."

I know. I nodded to him to go on.

"She used to hang around the camp. Ran errands for the prisoners if they had money. And the guards. Let herself be used by them too, I think. They'd give her a few roubles, or trinkets she could sell. She'd bring food – and medicines, sometimes. I got painkillers from her once or twice when – well, when they'd - " he shrugged. "Food too, especially in winter. The cold was much harder to bear if you were hungry as well."

"The guards allowed it?" I asked.

"Turned a blind eye. The system's completely corrupt. And she paid." He blinked rapidly.

"What happened?"

"Darshavin. He'd been in a foul mood for weeks. Cut my rations; let his gorillas off the leash during interrogations. I'd developed a stomach infection, and they wouldn't treat it. He caught me getting something from Sasha and started laying into me. She tried to intervene." He wiped his eyes. "Called him every filthy name in the book – and Sasha knew a few. I tried to stop her … screamed at her to run. I knew Darshavin. He could be kind, but when he got angry he was brutal. Turned savage." His voice shook. "Ros, I'm sorry …"

"He shot her?" I supplied quietly.

"Yes. I – I couldn't stop him. He – threw me in the – in the punishment cells. Left her body outside in the snow for two days where I could see it. It was freezing in there, and I was in pain, but it was shooting her that did it … last straw, I suppose. I made a noose from the sheets. In time-honoured fashion." His smile was ghastly. "Darshavin cut me down. That's what I'll never forgive him for. Killing her and saving me. I swore I'd get my revenge on him. Don't suppose I ever will now."

I could feel a lump in my throat. I swallowed on it – hard.

"I've never told anyone that before." Lucas sounded bewildered.

"That's because no-one ever ordered you to," I said dryly.

"No." He blew his nose. "It's because we're friends. You understand. And I think you care." A very faint smile. "At least when there's a Z in the month."

"I care about you being able to do your job, Lucas." I tried to keep my voice brisk. "Harry has enough on his plate. He needs both of us." I conceded an inch. "And I need you."

He nodded. "I won't let you down, Ros." He nodded out at Connie, watching us with a baleful expression. "I think you're needed out there, too."

I doubted that. Connie reacted to me in Harry's office the way the Pope would to a statue of Calvin in his. Lucas squeezed my shoulder as he passed me. "Thanks, Ros."

We're friends. I'd thought Harry was the only friend I had. I wasn't sure I'd ever had two real friends at once.

"You're welcome, Lucas." The shadows of the last few days had gone from his eyes now that he'd unburdened himself. At least I'd solved one problem. I smiled up at him and followed him out.

oOoOoOo

Two days later he woke me at 7 a.m. with a whispered message. "Ros, Harry's sending me to Moscow for intel. I'll call.' Half-thinking I'd dreamt the call, I rang him back. No reply. Harry's phone was answered, but not by Harry's voice.

I didn't need any further wake-up calls. Within the hour I was at Thames House, where I was greeted by chaos. Connie was verbally shredding some poor soul over the phone at a volume audible all over the Grid, while Malcolm, shorn of his usual diffident politeness, was arguing heatedly with the internal security officers demanding control of his systems. All of it was being watched helplessly by Ben and Jo, and orchestrated, with his usual dazzling ineptitude, by Richard 'Jellyfish' Dalby.

When he told me that Harry had been arrested on suspicion of being an FSB mole, I was torn between laughing in his face and wanting to slap it, but instead I just listened to his 'proof' of Harry's guilt with the most contemptuous expression I could muster. With the solid foundation of Harry ripped out from under it, his team would need authority and guidance. I felt as if the world had tilted on its axis too, but I couldn't let them see that, or let them indulge their shock. The wires were burning with the news of the death of the Russian Foreign Minister. Harry accused of working for the FSB, poor bloody Lucas thrust back into the land of his nightmares, Sugarhorse at risk. I didn't believe Aleksandr Borkhovin's sudden demise was a coincidence. That was about the only thing Richard Dalby and I were ever likely to agree on.

Where's Lucas? That was Connie. I said I had no idea. In the cacophony of voices echoing in my mind I could hear Harry. I will expose a mole in MI-5. Much as I hated to think of it, that traitor was probably here on the Grid. I knew it wasn't Harry. I didn't want to contemplate who else it might be either, but I had no choice. As the others dispersed to their tasks, I had the personnel files of the entire team brought to me and started going through them.

For hours, we achieved little but frustration. I was re-reading Lucas's file when Malcolm discovered that the man who had recently upgraded Aleksandr Borkhovin's IT systems had also died, recently and unexpectedly, of a heart attack. A second coincidence. I had Jo chase down the man's post-mortem results and thankfully sent the files back to Personnel. It made me feel almost unclean to be suspecting Lucas again; I couldn't help imagining his terror at the prospect of returning to Moscow. Then, of course, he could have gone at Harry's behest but with the blessing of the Russians, if I was wrong.

I'm not. The only way to dispel the sickening miasma of mistrust that now pervaded the Grid – and save Harry's skin - was to find out who the mole really was. I shoved my chair angrily backwards and joined Malcolm and Jo.

What's going on? Just as we were reviewing the information confirming that Chandra Paturi had not died of natural causes, Dalby interrupted us. He was bleating about the imminent arrival of the Home Secretary when Ben came up from the archive, announcing that MI-5's file on Borkhovin had been signed out - repeatedly - by a Hugo Prince. Almost simultaneously, Malcolm found a Russian press photo of Borkhovin's body. On the shoulder I could see a tattoo. Malcolm zoomed in on what appeared to be a rearing horse on a pedestal. I felt the office recede around me and then slowly come back into focus.

Borkhovin was a 'Sugarhorse' asset.

That forced me to come clean to Dalby. The sight of him smugly enthroned behind Harry's desk made bile rise into my throat, but for Harry's sake I kept my voice low and my face as expressionless as possible. Not easy; my lip tended to curl automatically within ten yards of Richard Dalby. It didn't help that he poured scorn on my every word, refusing to believe that anyone other than Harry could have been responsible for the betrayal of Sugarhorse. When he started sniping at Lucas too, I was ready to explode.

"You want me to use Harry's team to prove that he's a traitor?" Harry kept a large glass paperweight on the corner of his desk; it was within my reach, and I had to restrain myself from heaving it straight into his face. The effort might have been beyond me had the Home Secretary not arrived and saved me from myself.

And perhaps from this moron, too. I knew Nicholas Blake admired me. I didn't usually make use of that because it was unprofessional, but this time I would. I hurried out in Dalby's obsequious wake, and listened in growing alarm to news of a second Russian official, a nuclear scientist this time, found dead. That, and knowing that Lucas was risking his life in Moscow even as we stood there, cured any hesitation I might have had. But it was useless. Blake accepted Dalby's veto and refused me permission to brief the others. I was a serving officer and I had to obey the orders I was given.

Sometimes. With Dalby busy smarming his way round Nicholas Blake, I swiftly told the team about Sugarhorse. Hugo Prince – the only officer other than Harry and Dalby himself to know who the Sugarhorse assets were, seemed to be the only viable link we had, especially when Ben said that someone had used his name to get access to Borkhovin's file the day after Prince's death. I sent him back to the archive to find the access slip, put Connie back to monitoring Russian traffic, and started helping Jo to comb our Russian asset files.

The atmosphere had been tense when I arrived that morning, but now it was poisonous; everyone was watching everyone else. Knowledge of Sugarhorse had spread the venom of suspicion through the team. I quashed my own longing for Dalby to be the mole. That last, sneering crack about Lucas and Harry together having pulled the wool over my eyes had destroyed my ability to tolerate the sight of the bastard, never mind work with him. I gritted my teeth. Concentrate! Harry's depending on you. I quelled Jo's fussing about how long Ben was taking, and snapped at her to focus on the task at hand. We couldn't just sit there and wait for Ben to disinter a slip of paper bearing a traitor's signature. Connie had been right; it was a needle in a haystack job, and it could take forever. We had to try another way.

We were still trying it when Dalby appeared at my shoulder, his smug leer still firmly glued to his face.

Harry would like to see you.

oOoOoOo

I hadn't been to the interrogation suite since my first debriefing session with Lucas, and the sight of Harry in a Guantanamo-style plastic boiler suit made my blood run cold. I glared at Charles Grady, a putrid specimen of humanity masquerading as a specialist in counter-intelligence. When Harry had the courtesy to rise at the sight of me – something he barely had the strength to do – I could have wept. I sat down opposite him, wondering if I would be able to speak without doing so.

"None of this is true, is it?" I asked.

"I'm afraid it is," he said. I scrutinised his face as he went on, trying to read his eyes, straining for the slightest nuance in his voice. I could feel the warmth of a trickle of blood in my palm, caused by the way I was digging my nails into it. I still don't remember climbing the stairs back up to the Grid, and when Malcolm asked anxiously after Harry I almost broke.

"Did he say anything?"

I closed my eyes, forcing myself to replay those agonisingly painful few moments. '… the renaissance – renaissance … of something I profoundly believe in …'

"Renaissance," I croaked.

He found the file. A 1980s disinformation operation, run by Harry against the Russians. Harry – and Connie James. White-hot fury blazed up in me. Malcolm turned to me.

"The traitor," he whispered. At that moment Dalby swept in, self-satisfaction draped around him like a gladiator's cloak, and informed me that he had the names and had passed them on to a 'trustworthy' officer. For the first time ever, I heard Malcolm Wynne-Jones swear, vehemently, and not quite under his breath. I still had Lucas alone and out on a limb in Moscow, and by now Connie would know he was there.

"You are a fool." My voice was shaking with pent-up rage and a fear for both my friends that I would never admit to him. "I know why Harry wanted to see me. Connie James was turned during Operation Renaissance."

I pointed him to the computer screen just as Jo appeared in the doorway.

"Security's just called. One of the locks to the paper archive's been tampered with."

I pushed past Dalby without a word. As we made our way through the corridors I could feel an icy chill of dread spreading through me. When they broke open the door I thrust my way in and saw the terrible, bloody, unbearable evidence of my failure.

I turned on my heel and walked blindly out again into the corridor. Halfway down I leaned weakly against the wall and turned my face away as internal security officers came pounding towards the archive. Oh God. I had wanted the post of Section Chief. I'd more or less demanded of Harry that he give it to me. Adam had talked to me once about his guilt over the death of Danny Hunter, and of course I'd been there when we lost Zaf Younis. But I hadn't been in charge. Those officers hadn't been my responsibility. Ben Kaplan was. Had been. The blood pooling across the tiled floor of the archive was on my hands.

"Ros? Ros!"

I made myself turn. Malcolm looked suddenly old, but he spoke firmly. "We need to find her. And release Harry."

I swallowed. "Where's Jo?" When he nodded towards the archive, I wiped my sweaty hands down my skirt. "Get her out and take her back to the Grid. Then ring Lucas. Keep trying until you reach him. Make sure he's safe; I want him back here as soon as possible." That was personal as much as it was professional. More so. I couldn't bear the thought of anything happening to him. Not there. Not now.

Malcolm nodded, and reached out to support me as I straightened unsteadily. "Are you all right, Ros?"

I nodded, but the shock was hitting home now; I was shivering, and the usual glib I'm fine wouldn't come. He frowned, but he was enough of a gentleman not to press me. Instead, he briefly touched my hand, and watched me go.

oOoOoOo

I headed straight for Harry's office. Richard Dalby was still there, now surrounded by a gaggle of officers from Internal Security. The most senior turned to me.

"Rosalind Myers, Section Chief," I said, before Dalby could say anything. "One of my officers has just been murdered by the senior analyst in this Section, Connie James. You need to seal the building - now. My team has found evidence that she was turned by the FSB and is the mole passing them classified information. Connie James, not Harry Pearce. He was set up and framed." I turned to Richard Dalby. "And you were duped."

"I beg your pardon?" The indignation was well feigned, but he was blustering, and both of us knew it.

I thought of Harry struggling to his feet in that humiliating suit, drugged, and denied so much as a glass of water. "You can beg for my pardon until the sun turns cold. If you want Harry's, call that ghoul downstairs and get him released." I turned my back on him and stormed out.

When Malcolm returned with Jo, the latter tear-stained and shaky, I took them both into Harry's office, now blessedly free of the presence of Richard Dalby, who had vanished. I didn't know where, and now that I'd been informed that Harry's interrogation had been terminated, I didn't care either. I made coffee, and we sat quietly, waiting. There didn't seem to be much to say, although Malcolm, bless him, tried. He had managed to make contact with Lucas as he was boarding a flight in Moscow, the proof of Connie's treachery safely stowed in his pocket. Security was still searching for Connie; the team leader had promised to phone me the instant they located her.

"What's Lucas's ETA?" I asked.

"Eight-thirty," Malcolm answered. "Do you want him met?"

I shook my head. I had every intention of going to meet the plane myself to ensure the intelligence reached us safely. Who are you kidding, Myers? If Lucas had managed to spirit it out of Moscow with the FSB's finest on his tail, he'd hardly need my help to get it from Heathrow to Milbank. Malcolm had said he sounded 'stressed but OK', but Malcolm could only guess at how traumatic returning to Russia would have been for him. I knew, and I wanted to be there when he came home.

All three of us jumped as my mobile rang. "Myers. Yes. Understood. Yes. Wait for my signal." Jo and Malcolm were watching me. "She's approaching the Grid." My throat felt dry. "Stay here."

I waited in the shadow of a pillar. Since I was wearing dark clothes, she didn't see me immediately. She looked so … harmless. Just a stout little English granny, flat shoes, handbag over her arm, short grey hair. You'd see her in a supermarket queue and forget her face within ten yards of the checkout. Unremarkable. Unsurpassed in the ability to deceive and betray. I moved into her path.

"Step away from the pods."

She raised her eyebrows quizzically. "Something wrong?"

The still open graze on my hand stung as I clenched my fists, reminding me of that obscene crimson stain to which she'd reduced Ben Kaplan's life. I checked my anger, but I could still hear it tautening my voice.

"Operation Renaissance," I said. "That's where they turned you, wasn't it? You and Harry in Moscow. He came back the same." I raised one hand and snapped my fingers, my agreed signal with Internal Security. "You didn't."

The affable smile in her eyes morphed slowly into a cold, menacing glitter. "Almost made it!"

I heard the footsteps emerging behind me, but I didn't take my eyes from Connie James until I heard the voice at my shoulder.

"Almost." Harry still looked drained and exhausted, but he was back in a suit and tie. "Why did you do it?"

I saw the snarling smile with which she responded in my dreams for several nights afterwards. It must have stayed with Harry for a lot longer. He had known and trusted Connie for most of his working life.

Get her out of my sight. When Connie had been escorted from the Grid, he called me into the office.

"Sit down, Ros."

I sat. I still had a lot to do. I wanted to make sure that someone would take care of Jo tonight; I'd learnt my lesson on that front, at least. Ben Kaplan's family had to be informed of his death, and Lucas would be arriving soon. But for the moment, the sheer relief of seeing Harry back in his rightful place outweighed my need to deal with any of it.

"Are you feeling all right?" I asked.

He grimaced. "I've felt better. Where's Lucas? Is he safe?"

I told him, and he nodded. "A commendation will go on both your records. Without his courage and your loyalty, this could have ended very differently. You've both done a superb job. I'll make sure the Home Secretary is aware of that."

I shook my head. "I don't deserve it, Harry. I lost an officer today. I'm responsible for Ben's death."

His eyes flashed. "You are not, Ros. That is Connie James's responsibility and hers alone. As is the death of Maria Korachevskaya." He sighed, but as I would have contradicted him he raised an admonitory hand. "No, Ros. No self-flagellation, no wallowing, no guilt. Sadness I'll allow, for both you and me. But no more. Agreed?"

I hesitated, and then asked the question I had been dreading. "What about informing Ben's family?"

"My responsibility," Harry said crisply. He looked at his watch. "I have an appointment with the Home Secretary in half an hour." He stood up; I could see he was still slightly unsteady, but I knew better than to mention it as he came round the desk, put an arm round me and kissed my cheek. "I'm very much in your debt. Thank you, Rosalind."

oOoOoOo

I drove Jo home; she had asked Harry to allow her to break the news of Ben's death to his family, and declined my offer to go with her. I didn't press her, because she was a far more suitable choice to do the job than I, and I was beginning to think that Jo could sometimes be more grown-up than I gave her credit for. I drove on to Heathrow, bought myself a coffee and leaned on the barrier drinking it as I waited for the passengers from the Moscow flight.

Lucas emerged from Customs in the midst of a large group of tourists. He seemed to be using them as cover. Even from a distance I could see how tense he was; he was looking around him continuously. I had been checking for surveillance myself for the last twenty minutes and seen nothing suspicious, so when he came level with me I smiled.

"You're clean. Good job, Lucas." I knew better than to make him wait. "We've got her."

He looked utterly exhausted, but he visibly relaxed. "Slava bogu." It slipped out in Russian. "Is Harry OK?"

"Everything's fine." I shut off the memory of Ben. Lucas didn't need that yet.

He pointed at my cup. "Is there anything left in there?"

I handed it over. He took a long, grateful swallow and then immediately shuddered in disgust. I took coffee black and sugarless; Lucas usually added half an udderful of milk and at least three teaspoons of sugar.

"Ugh. Ros, that's foul. Can't we get another one? And I'm starving."

"I've got a better idea." I gestured towards the exit.

"Yeah?" He looked at me suspiciously. "Is it edible?"

I told him how I'd stopped off on the way to the airport and bought the makings of an evening meal and a bottle of wine. "Pasta, salad and strawberry tart. I owe you. And I can bring you up to speed."

The last phrase made the suggestion respectable; made it sound like a debrief, rather than an invitation that I was part embarrassed, part ashamed to be making, and nervous that he would refuse.

I needn't have worried. At the mention of strawberry tart his eyes sparkled. "You're on. It's good to see a friendly face, Ros."

"Where?" I shot back. He laughed – a genuine, warm, relaxed laugh, so different from that last, evil one of Connie's – and tucked his arm through mine. I felt myself blushing like an idiot.

"All rosy red, sweet, and dimpled." He looked at me and grinned mischievously. "I do love a good strawberry." He ducked as I took a swing at him. "There is no sincerer love than the love of food,' Ros. George Bernard Shaw."

Got you. " 'One should eat to live, not live to eat.' Cicero, Rhetoricorum." I opened the car door.

"Cicero never flew British Airways." He slid in. I waved on the car behind, and started the engine. It was only as we reached the exit to the approach road that the number plate impinged on me.

32 D 726. Russian Embassy.

oOoOoOo

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